


Blinker

by ThePsuedonym



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Backstory, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 05:58:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10825194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePsuedonym/pseuds/ThePsuedonym
Summary: "Tell me what you saw."





	Blinker

**Author's Note:**

> It came to me as of a dream. (But seriously, it did and I couldn’t resist.)

You don’t remember where you were going when you first met him.

To another, one’s destination at the time of introduction may not seem to be such an important detail when considered in hindsight (you had forgotten, after all; if it had been so vital, you wouldn’t have forgotten, now would you?) but sometimes, when idle thoughts give way to sudden recollection, you wonder if it had been because of him.

But those musings had come later; you are here, now, unburdened and unknowing and upon seeing him all lingering concerns of your destination have fled your mind.

He is older than you and Human; that is for certain. (Well, perhaps so near-Human that the foreign ancestry has been bred out of him, but the gentle nudging of the Force tells you otherwise.) Vaguely familiar in some way that makes you think he may have once been described to you by another, or that you had snatched a glimpse of a holo he was recorded within, or that perhaps you once passed him within the Temple’s expansive halls.

Whatever the case something makes you stop (the Force, you later decide, those whispered instructions without lips or voice yet clear all the same,) and approach him. Something in the way he holds himself suggests he is troubled by the turn of his thoughts but is reluctant to let it show; that stiff line in the set of his shoulders, a frown pulling anxiously at the corners of his mouth, the weary tightness in the corners of his eyes.

It is because of this – all of this, no single aspect – that you decide he must be a Master. (The younger Knights haven’t quite grasped the ability to mask their panic and worry.)

He sees you approach and smiles genially, visibly setting aside his troubles to address you more fully. “Padawan,” he says by way of greeting.

You bow back, not quite daring to take your eyes off his form. The Force hums gently, expectantly between you two; it is more active than you can ever recall it being in your presence. The back of your neck tingles as you straighten up and ask him, only the shade of a hair too forward for a mere Padawan, why he is standing in the middle of the hall all by his lonesome.

“Ah.” He crosses his hands behind his back. Still serene, though that friction has returned. “I’ve been waiting for my former Padawan. He was to be here by twelfth hour but, as you can see, he hasn’t shown.”

Glancing to your left and right only determines that the hall is empty, save for the two of you. Your first thought is whether this individual was chronically unpunctual (for the Master certainly seems resigned to waiting for him,) but decide it too rude; the second is to ask why he is waiting for his no-longer-a-Padawan (doesn’t the Council tend to disapprove of Master-Padawan pairs that remain close after the latter had completed their Trials? He seems too young for an acceptable amount of time to have passed,) but you are just as swift to disabuse yourself of that ridiculous notion. Whatever his business is with this late Knight or Master is his own. No need for you, an outsider, to pry into a Master’s privacy.

Rather, it is your third thought slips through your lips without provocation: “I could help you look for him, Master.”

You barely manage to suppress a cringe – there is no need to be pushing boundaries, not now – yet, to your relief, he doesn’t look offended by the notion, nor does he immediately dismiss you. Instead, he now looks thoughtful instead and strokes at his chin in a manner that strikes a faint chord in your memory. You feel as though you should be seeing another man in his place, their image superimposed upon his (like walking into a holo, you think,) but it disappears as soon as it begins. A shake of the head clears does little to clear your mind of the lingering unease it brings.

“I do suppose I could use some help,” he muses, entirely, _thankfully_ oblivious to your distress. Or perhaps purposely so, but you aren’t about to look a gift thumper in the mouth.

“Where does he usually go when he’s off-duty?” you ask as you fall into step behind him, grateful to put your egregious behavior behind you. He isn’t very tall for a Human so it isn’t difficult for you to keep pace with his strides.

“Here and there,” was the vague response. “The hangar and training salles are rather common for him – only we just returned to Coruscant yesterday and had agreed some time beforehand to a spar today. Hence the waiting.”

You make a non-committal sound in response, continuing to walk one step behind the Master as you wonder where the other Jedi might be. The Master appears to have some destination in mind, the hangar perhaps, because he moves with a kind of surety, a purpose in the way he holds himself. Regardless the route is unfamiliar to you and it doesn’t take long before you become hopelessly lost; you begin to feel less like a Padawan comfortable in the Temple and more an akk puppy stumbling along behind its immeasurably tall owner.

“Master?”

“Yes Padawan?” His voice is distracted; glancing up at him shows that his focus is fixed upon something not within your sight. A tiny seed of doubt plants itself in your thoughts even as the Force continues to whisper velveteen reassurances in your ear.

“Where are we going?”

“To find Anakin, of course.”

He says this as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. And perhaps it is.

“Where would he be, exactly?” The word is familiar to you just as the Master’s appearance is, but there is no face or voice to place with the name.

“In his rooms, I would suppose, or perhaps in the Archives.”

Your inability to comprehend why anyone – save Master Nu, who is widely recognized to be a mystery unto herself – would voluntarily go into the Archives fries your thought processes for a few silent minutes. The halls aren’t beginning to look any more recognizable or inviting than they were before when you manage to recover (which is to say, not at all). It almost feels like you’ve been wandering around for hours, but it couldn’t have been more than half an hour, if that. Fifteen minutes, more likely.

“Master?”

“Yes, Padawan?”

He doesn’t sound any more focused than he had before. That niggling feeling of worry you had pushed aside begins to blossom into anxiety, growing stronger the longer you aimlessly wander through the temple. Talking isn’t helping matters any, but seeing shafts of daylight streaming into the hallway does wonders for your fraying nerves; you must be approaching the northern end of the Temple, now, where the commissary is located. From there, it is a short walk to both the hangar and Knights’ quarters.

“I don’t believe I caught your name earlier, Master.” He stops so suddenly you walk right into him. Immediately you back away, simultaneously babbling apologies and cringing internally, which he casually waves off.

“Please forgive my rudeness, Padawan. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Master Kenobi smiles genially at you and gestures towards the other end of the hall, which appears to bleed into an open space. You glance at him, well aware that neither the Archives nor the Knights’ quarters feature any atriums – in fact, to the best of your knowledge there is no portion of the Temple directly open to the elements (but it is an enormous, sprawling building, perhaps older than even the Republic; there is a significant margin of error in your knowledge) – but obligingly enter the room at his behest.

Somehow you find yourself within the Room of a Thousand Fountains; how you failed to hear the running water is beyond you, yet there you are. Nearby is another Jedi, a Kel Dor tending to one of the larger plants inhabiting the garden. You think it might be a bhansgrek bush or a nala tree, but horticulture has never been your strong suit on a good day, let alone when you were rendered speechless by an impossible route through the Temple (that door had never been there before, had it?)

Whatever species of plant life it is, its needs don’t prove to be enough to distract the elder Jedi from your unexpected, inexplicable appearance; they glance up at you and you recognize him as a member of the High Council, Master Plo Koon. The Dorian native stands and appears to look at you; with his breathing mask and goggles on, it is difficult to be more than somewhat certain where, exactly, his attention is directed.

“Good afternoon Padawan,” he says kindly. You think so, at least. Again, the mask makes it difficult to discern anything about him; his presence in the Force is little help either, masterfully shielded from a casual glance. “What brings you to this part of the Temple?”

Respect for the Council member keeps you from looking back at the Human Master behind you, who seems to have escaped the Kel Dor’s notice entirely. “I was helping Master Kenobi search for his former Padawan, Master Koon.”

Something indeterminable changes in his face and you wonder if you spoke incorrectly, perhaps in a way he didn’t like. Maybe he didn’t like being called Master, just as the Senior Padawan you heard gossiping with their friends earlier had solemnly claimed.

As you realize this you wince and wring your fingers together, mouth flapping in a fashion reminiscent of an aquatic non-sentient reverse-drowning as you scramble for words to apologize for the misaddress. Master Plo, Plo Koon – or whatever his preferences may have been – seems not to notice your inarticulate flailing for decorum and speaks, saving you from further embarrassment.

“Master Kenobi has been one with the Force for more than a decade now, Padawan. Are you certain it was him you spoke with?”

Your mouth drops open – of its own accord, again – and you turn around to ask Master Kenobi if that was true.

The hall behind you is completely void of life. He is nowhere to be seen.

A hand drops down on your shoulder, almost uncomfortably warm for a sentient species. “Come with me, child,” Master Koon says. “Tell me what you saw.”


End file.
